One Day
by mandrake-o
Summary: Rory tries to meet her publisher's deadline by spending a day at the bridge. Literati - Oneshot


**One Day**

She sighed, trailing her fingers through the water lazily, watching the ripples emanate from where the tips of her fingers touched the water's surface. Life was peaceful. Unproblematic. Uncluttered by fear and rage and disappointment.

Life was a lie.

Rory wasn't quite sure how anything had happened. For someone who'd always prided herself on her own mental awareness, she had remarkably little to say about the past few years and how they'd passed her by. She had no idea what had happened. There had been Logan at first. That she remembered. Her final year at Yale. Her first job ferrying coffee between the 'real' journalists. Quitting her first job. Writing articles for a magazine aimed at teenage girls. Deciding that movie-making was really more her style. What had she been thinking?

Being the hand model for a new moisturiser. But she knew why she'd taken that one. The manicurist had said her hands were amazing, and well, the casting guy was right there and he was so, so good-looking. Besides, it brought good money and no one had known it was her. Even now no one knew it was her. But the old Rory never would have done that.

Then there'd been the stint at the coffee shop. But she'd been fired for drinking too much of their supply. Employees got a discount, not a free cup with every customer's purchase. Coffee was her weakness. She shouldn't have started there in the first place.

Taxi driver. That had been hilarious with her driving skills. Eventually she'd had to surrender her cab after that one guy had- No. She wasn't going to think about that. Dressmaker. That had been a fun job. She didn't even have to come up with the designs herself, something she would have struggled with. Someone gave her the pattern. She sewed it up. Cake Decorator. But she'd had to get up too early in the morning. And there were always wedding cakes. Someone, somewhere was always happy. Or at least, tried to be happy. It was sickening. Absolutely sickening.

Camp counsellor. Technical support officer. Call centre operator. Market research coordinator. Forklift operator. Secretary. Sales assistant.

And finally, author. You couldn't be an author if you didn't have experiences. And she had experiences. Experiences by the bucketload. She was sure of it.

But right now, they all eluded her.

Her first novel had been okay. People had heard of her. Not everyone had heard of her, or her book, but the literary types, they'd heard of her. That was good.

And now she had to write her second book. The book that would put her at the top of the bestsellers list in every English-speaking country in the world. And the rest of them a year later.

It had to be pithy and inspiring. It had to be intriguing and easy at the same time. It had to be...

Written. That was the most important part. Editing could take care of some of the rest. Or at least, buy her a bit more time. So long as she had the main part of the book. Then she could slide by.

But she was chasing a deadline, and ruing the fact that she'd signed a two-book deal when she didn't even have an idea.

So she'd gone home. Back to Stars Hollow. Back to the memories of her mother and her childhood. Of small townsfolk. Of inns, and little take out shops, and Luke's Diner. Home.

Rory had expected something different at home. Something inspiring. She'd expected to be inspired. But nothing had happened.

So she'd headed out to the bridge with her laptop and a battery charge that would last her all day, and she'd stolen a coffee pot from Luke's.

But the coffee was cold now.

Her charge was running low.

It was getting cold.

The sun was setting... or was it just being covered over with rainclouds?

And still her page was blank.

Rory hadn't fallen asleep, so how had all that time passed? She couldn't even remember what she had done all day, let alone all her life. Let alone anything interesting.

A disaster. That's what her life had become. And Rory wasn't even sure that she could call it a beautiful one.

She drew her laptop onto her lap to keep it warm, her legs sticking straight out in front of her. She made sure that she was facing the exact direction the sun would be in last as it sank over the horizon. She took a deep breath. And she closed her eyes.

All of a sudden, she remembered.

The exact chocolate brown shade of his hair. The precise black coffee colour of his eyes. The caramel of his skin. He smelt of the diner, and his aftershave. And she could taste him in the air right now.

It made her ache. Her whole body became alert and relaxed at the same time.

She was Rory again.

But it had taken someone else to become Rory. She had needed his guidance. She had needed him.

If she was honest with herself, she still needed him.

She whispered his name over the river, hoping to conjure him with a breath. With a thought. With a whimper.

Impossible.

The last rays of the sun faded and the first stars began to glow.

Rory gave up on today, and powered down her laptop. She tucked the slim device beneath her arm and lifted the vessel of lingering coffee drops from the surface beside her.

Back to Luke's she walked, her steps echoing through the sparsely populated streets as she headed for the warmth of Luke's. The warmth of Luke himself if she was honest. Because Luke reminded her of home, and her mother, and of Jess, even when she forgot that she was trying to think of him.

Luke gave her a weary sigh as she handed over her stolen coffee pot. His face was crinkled, and his hair was grey. But his eyes shone with concern.

"No luck?"

Rory shook her head. "Not today."

"You'll get through it," he said. "You always do."

Rory nodded as though she believed him. He squeezed her hand gently, then was gone. Off to help someone else.

"'About the Author'," a voice quoted behind her abruptly. "'Lorelai Leigh Gilmore was born in Conneticuit, named after her mother and grew up living in an inn, just like Stacey in her first novel _Market's Bride_. She then went to two different high schools, finished her stint at Yale University in two attempts, and has since worked in more than fifteen different occupations. She now lives in Minneapolis with her three pet rocks.'"

Rory rotated on her stool slowly, unable to comprehend what she had just heard.

There was a man standing there with a familiar voice, and familiar coffee coloured eyes. More than just a five o'clock shadow lined his face, and his glossy chocolate curls tumbled as free as their owner ever was. He smiled at her, and closed a creased paperback in front of her eyes. The cover was more than recognisable. He was holding her book.

She was speechless.

He smiled at her. "I knew that description was a lie."

"Jess," she stated finally.

"Rory," he said in the same tone.

Behind him, Luke looked upon the pair with a fatherly gaze, even as he bent to wipe down a table.

"I can't believe you're here," she uttered. She'd conjured him. He couldn't possibly actually be there.

"I'm here."

"For long?" she asked, even as her brain struggled to keep up with the myriad of thoughts zooming about.

"For as long as I'm needed," he answered, indicating Luke with a tip of his head.

Rory nodded in response. "I've had the most awful writer's block."

He quirked an eyebrow as though to ask 'Oh?'.

She nodded again. "But I think you've just cured it."

He laughed gently, reminding her of everything that she should have been writing about all day today. "I'm glad," he said. "You wouldn't want this piece of crap to be your last."

She didn't know whether to hit him or be offended. So she settled for something she knew she wanted.

Rory kissed Jess.

"Welcome home," she said.

He laughed, and kissed her back.

THE END


End file.
